


Before

by DarnariusMcQuimberton



Series: I'll Build a House Inside of You [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Dean and Gabriel are BFFs, First Love, M/M, Other Supernatural Characters Abounding, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-07-28 07:10:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20060050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarnariusMcQuimberton/pseuds/DarnariusMcQuimberton
Summary: Dean is off the road for the first time in his life, Castiel is generally stoned, Sam is smarter than everyone and Gabriel is just trying to help!





	Before

**Author's Note:**

> I'll build a house inside of you  
I'll go in through the mouth  
I'll draw three figures on your heart  
_one of them will be me as a boy_  
one of them will be me  
one of them will be me watching you run
> 
> \- You are a Runner and I am My Father's Son by Wolf Parade
> 
> Things to keep in mind when reading this fic:
> 
> 1\. I started this three years ago. The majority of it was written while I was in my first viewing of the show and before I got further than season 8 or so. All characterizations are based on my impressions of the characters from that chunk of the show.
> 
> 2\. This is part of a series. Originally, I wrote it as one story (called I'll Build a House Inside of You) with three distinct sections within it that tell their own piece of a larger narrative, but in posting I realize that it's too unwieldy as one entity. So, I'm breaking it up. What made up my mind is that each section is really it's own story. You can enjoy this one even if you might not like its successors, because --
> 
> 3\. There will be bad, nasty, terrible, traumatic things that happen in this fic. However! Nothing really bad happens until part two. The first part of this story does not include any major warnings. It's mostly just a love story about two stoners. Minor warnings for this part: copious recreational drug and alcohol use, references to consensual, happy underage sex, and some angst over being queer/coming out and shitty fathers/families.
> 
> 3\. The city of Yelm, Washington is a real place. However, I have never been there. I grew up not too far away and have always been amused by the word. Yelm. It tickles me. I chose to set this story there simply because I enjoy the name. I have no intimate knowledge of the geography or culture or anything. So, just pretend that this is a fictional city called Yelm that just so happens to be in the same general location as the real Yelm.
> 
> 4\. This is more for the entire series, but please excuse any mistakes involving police, medical, small business matters, etc.. I'm sure there are plenty. I did the best I could with my limited understanding of such things. Maybe just don't think about it too hard, kay? This applies to all depictions of religious matters. I was raised very secularly and have almost no direct experience with any type of religion. So, I think I may have mashed up all the different protestant denominations with some dashes of Catholicism? I'm really not sure. I don't mean to offend anyone. All errors are due to ignorance. That being said, if you wish to nicely point out any glaring errors and educate me, I'd be more than happy to be told what is what.

Dean has been driving for 31 hours. Just that, just driving. He pulls to the side of the road when he has to piss, neglects sleep, neglects eating -- though he does swing by a Jack in the Box in Billings, Montana because he can't let Sammy starve. He keeps his mind going by blasting Led Zeppelin and Metallica, annoying Sammy to no end, but hey, he has to stay awake somehow. The adrenaline has long worn off and he's going to crash eventually. He's just praying he is not behind the wheel when it happens.

He's on the last stretch, now, rolling along on an absurdly winding road through a mass of trees that will at some point lead to Bobby's. It's midday and the bright June sun is shining with a vengeance, biting into Dean's eye line. He has to slow Baby to a crawl to avoid careening off one of the sudden sharp turns that cut through the hilly woods of Washington and killing the two things he loves most in the world.

"Can I read it again?" Sam asks. The words float directly over Dean's head because his brain cells have dwindled down to double digits and are rubbing together desperately just trying to keep his foot on the pedal and his eyes open.

"Dean?"

He wishes he had called Bobby, had made sure the old grump knew they were on their way and there was no foreseen date of departure. He hadn't even thought of it when he started rushing out of the motel yesterday morning, too jacked up on the surging need to _go_. A bubble of anxiety has been floating in his chest since about 17 hours ago when he remembered that he was speeding across the country towards a man who wasn't expecting two teenage boys to show up needing food and housing. It only compounded when he realized the burner phone that John had given him is busted and, apparently, there isn't a single pay phone left in America.

Maybe John had called. For some reason, Dean doubts it.

"Dean?"

Bobby won't turn them away, he reminds himself. Bobby never has. The weathered mechanic may wear derision and apathy but that's all he does -- wear it. He treats misanthropy like a fashion choice, something to be slipped on, wrapped around himself, to lead those just taking a glance at him to certain uninviting conclusions. It's just dressing. Dean has to remember that so the sleep deprivation clouding his logic doesn't trigger some dumb, sissy panic attack.

Dean feels a pinch near his armpit, causing an undignified yelp to escape his mouth. Maybe some flailing. A small amount of manly flailing. "Jesus! What?" he growls, turning to Sammy, who is staring at him with those damn eyebrows all scrunched up in worry. Dean avoids looking directly at the eyebrows, or the quivering hazel eyes below them, or the little frown pushing down his brother's mouth, elongating his baby-fat cheeks. He should just avoid looking at the whole kid. 

"I could drive for a while," Sam offers.

"You're thirteen."

"So? I know how to drive and I don't really feel like dying in a fiery auto crash right now."

"Shut it, kid. I got it. We're almost there. Just shut up."

The wary look on Sam's face tells Dean that Sam is not sure Dean has anything at the moment, but he deigns to drop the argument. Dean hardens his expression and keeps driving, pretending to be unmoved by Sam's dramatic sigh. Really, it's a toss up who has a better chance of not killing them behind the wheel at the moment, but Dean's stubborn. Sam's stubborn, too, but Dean's older and therefore has more practice. 

"Can I at least see it again?"

Dean immediately knows what _it_ is. The damn letter. Sam has already read it a dozen times in the last day and change, asking for it each time like it is somehow going to say something different or something more if he could just gave it another look. Of course, that's not how letters work. It's always the same cryptic bullshit scrawled in near illegible capital letters, more nearly illegible than usual, like the composer had been shaking while he wrote it. Dean could tell Sam that reading it over and over is just going to drive him nuts, but it's too much effort. He just pulls the crinkled motel stationary out of the pocket of his flannel and hands it over.

"What does he mean _dangerous_?" Sam asks. He asked it before. Dean didn't have a good answer then and guess what? Staring vacantly at a series of expansive highways with no rest hasn't stirred up any epiphanies in Dean. He grumbles incoherently in reply, knowing Sam doesn't really expect a satisfying answer. "Seriously, he chases criminals for a living! Murderers and armed robbers and wife beaters, and _that's_ never been too dangerous to take us along for the ride. What could suddenly be so horrible that we can't stay with him? That he has to whisk off in the middle of the night? And why can't he just tell us! Like, how is he protecting us by keeping us in the dark all the time? Three dumb lines. _It's too dangerous. Go to Bobby's, now. Look after Sammy._ Does he think we are in a stupid action movie and it has to sound cool for the tagline?" Sam's rant eventually devolves into frustrated growls and bitten off swears before he deflates in his seat with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

"Thought you'd be happy," Dean mutters, rubbing the side of his temple with one hand in a useless action, trying to no avail to stave off a building headache, "You hate being on the road with Dad. All you've ever wanted was to stay with Bobby. So, we're gonna stay with Bobby. Be happy."

Sam's response is a petulant sneer, his crossed arms somehow growing more pointedly crossed. It's so thoroughly thirteen that Dean almost laughs. 

"That's not the point." 

"Sure it is. Bright side and all that. Silver lining or whatever."

Sam rolls his eyes, "Bet he didn't even tell Bobby we were coming."

__

John didn't tell Bobby. It's evident by the look of surprise that lights up his face for all of three seconds when he opens the door to his only-a-little-dilapidated house in Yelm, before his face grows stony. The first words he says in his growled baritone are, "Boy, you look like hell. Get your ass in here." Dean could kiss the old cuss, because he knows in that moment Bobby's going to take care of them.

Dean mumbles a _yes, sir_ as he passes through the threshold because he is tired and it's a habit, not one Bobby usually abides, but he doesn't bother correcting Dean this time. Sam follows him in to the house looking nervous, but smiling meekly when Bobby puts a warm hand on the back of his neck once he has shuffled in to the little entry way.

"I suppose your daddy is on a job, huh? Needs my to put you up for a week or two?"

There is a weight that appears in the pit of Dean's stomach then, something that feels a lot like guilt, a lot of like dismay. Maybe he assured himself too soon. Maybe Bobby doesn't want two dumb punks underfoot. It's not like Dean wants to put Bobby out. They just don't have anywhere else to go. Sam sends him a worried look, flashes of fear in his eyes. The kid is feeling the same anxiety as Dean, the same worry that they aren't as welcome as they might have hoped. Dean's the big brother, the one who takes care of things, so he is the one who squares his shoulders and clear his throat.

"Actually, well, Dad's not on a job exactly -- or, maybe he is on a job. I don't know. But, he -- uh, he left a note. He didn't leave a lot of details, but um -- it kind of seems like it might be more than a couple weeks." 

Sam pulls the letter out of his back pocket and hands it over to Bobby, who takes it with a mildly curious expression. It grows stormy after he absorbs the three short lines, then breaks off with a scoff and a shrug, like it's not a surprise, not something Bobby's going to let ruffle his feathers. "Course it ain't safe," he says easily, "that idjit. You two get those looks off your faces. You'll stay here, long as you need."

Dean almost misses the look of naked relief on Sam's face and the way he lurches forward to wrap himself around Bobby's pot-bellied middle. He is too busy nearly collapsing. Now that everything is settled, now that they're safe, it's like he has been zapped of whatever remaining chemicals were keeping his eyes open and his body upright. He does catch the mortified look on Bobby's face at being embraced, and the way he rallies to awkwardly pat Sam's shoulder while the boy whispers desperate thank yous. Dean offers his own shaky gratitude, smiling weakly when Bobby just waves him away and straightens the younger Winchester up with an uncomfortable grimace on his face.

"All right, all right, enough of that," he huffs, "you boys look like you're about to keel over. You remember where your room is. I suggest you make some use of it."

"I'm fine," Sam insists, "I slept on the way. Dean's been up since St. Louis."

"Has he?" Bobby shoots him a reproachful look.

Dean shrugs, despite looking chastised, mumbling, "Dad said _Now_. Didn't say lollygag your way over."

"Coulda crashed, idjit," Bobby mutters, "don't matter now though. Just go sleep. There'll be dinner when you wake, or breakfast, whichever's closet.

Dean nods, turning to stumble down the hallway to a small guest room without another word. He has to stop when he gets to the doorway and peaks in to see the old set of bunk beds set up just like always. It's like the last drop in a bucket already starting to bubble over. He is frozen for a long moment, overwhelmed by emotions sloshing inside of him. Gratitude, relief, affection, exhaustion, lingering fear. He shutters, starting to settle as the scales tip their way towards exhaustion exclusively. Though, there is still enough room in his chest to swell with love at the sight of the bunk beds. It's the same set that used to be in the guest room of Bobby's old house back in Lawrence, the same set that he dragged across the country three years ago when he moved to Yelm to take over his dead buddy's garage. The same set that he kept all these years so that Sam and Dean would always have a place to sleep.

He takes the top bunk, like he always does. Sam was just a toddler when they started using the set, meaning neither Dean nor Bobby felt safe with him that far off the ground. So, the bottom became Sam's and the top became Dean's and for the past ten or so years they have been the only beds that have ever really been _theirs. _It's an old mattress, lumpy in places and thin in others, resting on hard wood slates, but it's _Dean's_ and he loves it.

It takes three minutes for him to fall asleep. Three surreal minutes where he thinks maybe this is a good thing. Maybe Dad disappearing in the middle of the night and the rug being ripped out from underneath him is exactly what he needs. If only for a chance to rest.

__

Yelm isn't much. Dean has spent a lot of time in a lot of towns that weren't much but never has he faced the possibility that he might grow to learn and understand all the nuances and intricacies of the not-muchness of a town. He finds he doesn't mind. 

It's very green. That's the first impression that sinks into Dean's mind. Green. The early summer sun illuminates that fact, bright heat bouncing off all the vegetation, making it shine. It is strange for the cold pit in Dean's stomach where his father's absence lingers to be paired with such overreaching warmth. Dean finds he doesn't even really linger on that hole inside him, not when Bobby starts him working on cars in his garage. Not when, in the evening, he is sweating and covered in grease, and he takes long walks through the shaded woods and smells fresh, clean air. His muscles ache from use, mostly his arms and back, but even his legs feel a little shaky. He walks anyway, the dirt trails of the forest leading him peacefully nowhere.

A couple days before July takes over, Bobby insists he take the day off. It has been a week since they arrived and he has spent every day trying to pull his weight at Bobby's garage. Finally, the man forces Dean to go back to bed when he wakes up at seven in the morning, tells him, "to sleep 'til noon or some shit, like a normal, lazy ass teenager." Dean does return to sleep, only feeling the smallest bit guilty for slinking back in to his top bunk.

When he wakes the second time, it's still too early. Bobby is at the garage. Sam is asleep. After making himself eggs and toast, which takes too little time, he finds himself alone, well fed, and with nothing to do. It is not a feeling he has much experience with, has only encountered during his few reprieves at Bobby's. The rest of the last 13 years has been spent following orders and looking after Sam. It's an eerie sensation, having someone else around reliably to care for Sammy, having his only orders be to _relax _and _enjoy himself_.

It's too bad Yelm isn't much. All it is, really, is green. Just modest homes and quaint shops and _green_. Historically, _enjoying himself_, for Dean has not involved greenery. It's involved sneaking out after Sam is tucked in to bed and finding a bar to serve him or a game to hustle or someone pretty who isn't against slumming. He isn't going to find any of that at 10 a.m. on a Thursday in goddamn _Yelm._

So, Dean finds himself in the woods again. Bobby's old house is tucked away and somewhat secluded with a long gravel driveway that meanders far away from the more clustered homes at its mouth. At the spot where the narrow driveway widens to meet a large clearing that serves as Bobby's front yard, there is an opening to a trail. After a short walk, it branches off in to numerous more trails, more than Dean has had time to explore in the week he has been here. They sprawl all through the forest, popping out at different parts around town, many times in the middle of neighborhoods, though a couple culminate at the local elementary school, and once Dean found himself behind a seven-eleven.

In the growing summer heat, Dean wanders aimlessly past never-ending loops of flora for an hour or so, trying to find that seven-eleven trail again. He is thinking he might get a couple donuts to bring back to Sam if he could ever find the damn thing. Before he can turn down a promising trail, or maybe a not promising trail, Dean can't tell the difference, he is interrupted by the smell of something thick and skunky coming from off the path. It crawls up his nose and stays there, tickling hazy memories of random slackers from various towns, leaving him with an echoed sensation of breathless laughter and muscles unclenching themselves. It is those loopy, pleasant recollections that encourage him to follow the scent.

He sniffs around the trees for a minute before finding a skinnier path, not as popularly treaded upon, and follows it. It is a longer walk that Dean expected, full of branches catching him in the face and logs tripping his feet. A couple times he thinks he has lost the trail completely, but he perseveres. Eventually, he comes to a small open space, obviously made with purpose rather than the randomness of nature. A teenager, probably right about Dean's age, is sitting on one of a few logs that have been dragged into a semi-circle. His feet are kicked out in front of him, towards the center where there is a make shift fire pit made from rocks. There is a half-smoked joint dangling between two of his fingers.

The boy is faced away from Dean, so he can only see his back. He is all skinny limbs, pale skin and dark hair that doesn't look like it has seen a comb recently. He has one earbud in, but it is not enough, apparently, to drown out the sound of Dean rustling leaves as he tries to get a different angle on the stranger. The boy turns around languidly to look at Dean, like he is not at all concerned about a potential threat stumbling in to his stoner's reprieve. Maybe he is too stoned. Maybe he is one of those people who doesn't understand that all unknowns are possible dangers. Those people usually annoy Dean.

The boy's gaze is appropriately glazed over, but his eyes are a surprising blue even with their red-rimmed squint. His expression is passive, peaceful, and the slightest bit goofy. Dean thinks most of that silliness is the weed because there is a discordant seriousness to the guy, to the careful placidity in his eyes, to the way he sits straight and proper. Dean's not sure how someone can look so straight-laced while smoking a joint by themselves before noon.

"Good morning," the stranger greets, taking out his earbud to give Dean his full attention, like he won't allow drug use to have any effect on his manners.

"Uh -- hey," Dean replies, feeling put off-balance. He walks in to the clearing more to face the boy fully. He is just as pale and scrawny from the front, wearing a dark blue button down shirt -- clean, presentable -- and khaki pants. He can't be any older than Dean. There is something lopsided about the stranger that makes Dean feel a little lopsided. It feels uncomfortable but not quite dangerous or alarming, or even unpleasant. There is a current in his eye contact that feels vibrant and intent, but the glaze of marijuana smooths off the scary parts that are inherent in that kind of focus.

"Have you come here to smoke?" The boy punctuates his question by taking a deep inhale. His voice is gravelly in a way that shoots up and down Dean's spine. It gives the boy an air of authority that doesn't help Dean's uncentered feeling.

"Well, no," Dean says, "I didn't bring any weed."

"You came all the way here without any weed?" The stranger looks like this is genuinely confusing to him, like he can't imagine any one going anywhere without weed.

"I didn't know it was a requirement." It might be at a spot like this, dug deep in to the woods, hidden from random pedestrians. There are only so many reasons to sit on a log in the forest.

The kid looks at him quizzically for a long moment, like Dean has just told him a brain teaser. "You do smoke though," he says, as if it is not really a question, like an affirmative is a given. Dean offers a half-shrug, half-nod. He gets examined more for his trouble, a long pause while muddled wheels turn behind that blue gaze.

"Would you like some?" he gestures to the joint in his hand and then to the log he is sitting on.

Dean has been offered weed from strangers before, but mostly at parties where it had context. It feels maybe like a bad idea just to smoke the weed of some random forest stoner. Dean nods anyway, he can't explain why, and takes a seat next to the boy as he picks the joint from between delicate fingers. 

"Thanks," he mutters, realizing that it probably isn't any better of an idea for this skinny punk to be offering drugs to strange men who bust in on them smoking in the woods. Maybe they are both lacking in proper threat assessment, but at least Dean knows which one of them would win in a fight. Dean has met preteen ballerinas that were more threatening than this leisurely stoner. The guy probably thinks he is living in some idyllic small town where bad things just don't happen. Joke's on him. Dean's been to plenty of idylls were the danger was just as real as anywhere else.

It's good weed. He tells the kid as much. He smiles dreamily in return. It's the best weed Dean has had in a while, since the last time John dropped him and Sam off in California. It burns smoothly down his throat, into his lungs. He doesn't cough despite being out of practice.

"I'm Dean," he offers as he passes the joint back.

"Castiel."

Dean huffs a half-laugh, which Castiel ignores. He manages not to say out loud what he is thinking, which is, _of course, the weird kid's got a weird name._

"You don't go to YHS," Castiel states with a tranquil certainty.

"That the high school around here?"

"It is."

"You're right, I don't. I might, next year, maybe. I don't know." Who knows how long until John decides the danger is gone and swings by to drag him and Sammy back on to the road

"You don't know?" Castiel gets this blithe crease between his eyebrows when he asks a question, like whether he eventually understands whatever concept is slipping through his grasp is unimportant.

"Yeah, I mean, I don't know. I probably will."

"I see," Castiel says, though Dean has no idea how he possibly could. If he finds Dean's hedging at all odd, he doesn't show it. In fact, judging by the thorough mildness of his expression, Castiel doesn't find this conversation noteworthy in any way. He just keeps puffing on his joint before passing it back to Dean. Silence stretches between them, nagging at Dean, if only because Castiel seems so completely unfazed by it.

"Is that where you go?" Dean tries.

"Hm?"

"YHS? You go there?"

"Oh. Yes."

"Is it a good school?"

Castiel seems to take this question quite seriously, judging by the considering look on his face before he simply says, "I do not know how to answer that."

The weed makes it impossible for Dean to hold in his laugh. It comes out as a stream of breathy giggles. Castiel doesn't look offended by his outburst though. He just continues staring at Dean with a mild gaze. "I only meant that I do not know what makes a good high school. I have only attended the one. As far as I can tell, it is basically the same as any other. Whether that is good or bad is up to each individual's judgment."

"Right," Dean agrees through his continued mirth. He doesn't know what it is about this kid that is triggering such amusement in him. It could be his stilted choice of words, or his otherworldly expression, or something more intrinsic and indescribable. Dean cannot help but be charmed. Maybe it's the weed.

"You know," he feels compelled to share, "you don't really talk like a stoner."

"Perhaps your definition of a stoner is too narrow," Castiel shrugs. The joint has been exhausted, so he takes the smoldering roach and thumbs it in to the dirt. Dean is feeling pleasantly buzzed, his head light and his skin tingling, but not outright high. When Castiel pulls out another joint from a pack of American Spirits and holds it up for Dean's input, he nods in encouragement.

They manage one rotation before footsteps pull their attention to the mouth of the clearing. For a moment, Dean flashes on an infuriated authoritarian come to punish the kids for getting high, but that quickly vanishes when a short young man with floppy, golden brown hair and twinkling eyes appears. He has a small mouth, twisted in to a sly, plotting grin. Any real threat that smile might have held is ruined, however, by the bright blue stain on his lips caused by a tootsie pop stuffed in one of his cheeks.

The boy stops in front of them, not bothering to remove his candy from his mouth before declaring, "Cassie, you slut! You stole my weed."

Castiel's face grows its first definitive expression. It is grumpy and put upon in a way that is eerily similar to Sammy's face whenever he gets fed up with Dean's teasing. "It is _my_ weed, Gabriel," he grumbles, his deep voice hinting at a power that Dean might find impressive if it weren't for the bright morning sun and the marijuana cloud and the chuckling imp in front of him, completely unmoved.

"Yes, but you promised to share with me. One half of that is rightfully mine. And here I find you two-timing me with what I can only assume is some kind of very pretty woodland nymph." 

"Nymphs are female. And I only said I would share if you got up before noon."

"Well, it's 11:57, kiddo," Gabriel says, holding up his phone as proof, "so give Papa his marijuana."

Castiel is wearing a look of exasperated resignation so profound that it inspires another round of giggles from Dean. He manages to keep them in check enough to pass the joint to the interloper when Castiel gives a gesture of surrender.

"Thank you, darling," Gabriel replies, removing the candy from his mouth just long enough to take a long toke, exhale, another long toke, hold, hold, hold, and then it is swiftly back between his lips, before even all the smoke has been cleared from his lungs. "Are nymphs really all female? I thought the ancient Greeks had more imagination than that, you know, were more down to clown. Never expected them to be so heteronormative."

"Why don't you go bother them about it?"

"Testy. I didn't _mean _to intrude on your little lovers' respite."

"_Gabriel --"_

"Oh, _the tone_, I am afeared! Chill out, Cassie, you're about as threatening as a wet kitten. I'm on teasing, anyhow. Now, who is your friend? If he isn't the manifest embodiment of all your wet dreams brought to life by the untold mystic forces of the forest, that is." Gabriel is speaking so quickly that Dean's foggy mind has a hard time keeping up. By the end of it, though, he is pretty sure he should be offended or shocked or something. He is almost positive he was called a wet dream. That should probably mean he should be either flattered or uncomfortable, he's not sure which. He just ends up laughing.

Castiel looks halfway between mortified and furious for ten entire seconds before he lets his face fall in to his hands. He speaks mildly from against his palms, "no more weed for Gabriel. His weed privileges have been revoked."

Dean laughs again, has probably laughed more in the last five minutes than he has in the last month, and passes the joint to Gabriel whose hands are outreached and making childish grabbing motions. "Gracias, guapo. ¿Cómo se llama?" Gabriel asks, the words garbled by the fact that he has both a tootsie pop and a joint between his lips.

"Uh -- that means, like, what's your name, right?

"Sí."

"Dean."

"_Dean_, of course you are. You have _Dean _written all over you. I'm Gabriel, Cassie's--"

"Big brother?" Dean beats him to it.

Gabriel grows a satisfied smile -- or, more accurately, his already satisfied smile becomes even more satisfied. "You're quick," he says, "or are we that transparent? Can't be that we look the same. I got all the attractive genes, obviously, left Cassie with the dregs."

Dean doesn't know about that, because Castiel is -- the only word Dean can think that is appropriate is -- _fair. _The boy is put together in way that doesn't hurt in the least to look at. He shrugs, replying lightly, "Castiel is wearing the same expression my little brother wears every time I 'embarrass' him."

"Ah, so you understand. See, Castiel? The Lord, in His infinite wisdom, made me your older brother. What other mission does He have for me but to be your merciless tormentor?"

"Did He also plan for you to bogart all my weed?"

"One has to assume so."

"I hate you."

"I know, darling," Gabriel crunches through the last of his tootsie pop, tossing the soggy stick behind him without a care. "So, _Dean_, I don't know you. I mean, it's a small town, but not so small that I know everyone. I just think that if you, in particular, were around previously, I'd have noticed."

Dean is pretty sure he is being flirted with, but he is also pretty sure that this is just the way Gabriel talks. By the put-upon look Castiel is sending heavenward, it seems that Castiel is used to this, so Dean decides to just let it go. It's fun to watch Gabriel rile him up anyway, especially after he had been so perfectly impartial before.

"I just got here," Dean offers, stopping himself from accidentally saying that he just _moved _here. Moving somewhere implies that you are planning on staying there, building a life there and that's not something Dean does. He doesn't move places. He goes places. He has only been in Yelm for a little over a week and he is already getting antsy with the ingrained expectation that he should be getting on soon. He doesn't particularly want to, not with Bobby here and the garage and Sammy smiling easier than he ever does on the road, but his body is just too used to leaving.

"He might start YHS in the fall," Castiel adds.

"Might?"

Dean shrugs, not feeling like explaining.

"Well, it's a shit hole, but you gotta go somewhere, right? You'll be, let me guess, a senior?"

"Bingo."

"What a cowinkydink. Cassie'll be a senior, too."

Dean looks to Castiel for some sort of comment about their shared graduating year, but all he gets is an eyeful of pretty blush high on the boy's cheeks.

"So, what on Earth possessed your parents to move to _Yelm _of all places? All the prestige and respect it's dripping in?" Gabriel barrels forward. Dean has a feeling he can do this all day.

Dean doesn't answer right away because the weed is making it harder for him to come up with a quick, snappy retort that would distract the two boys from the fact that he doesn't want to answer their question. His mind keeps supplying half a thought that peters out and by the time it does, he can't remember the beginning of it. He figures Gabriel must have an inhumanly high tolerance if he can keep up all his quipping. Being locked in a motel room most days with his kid brother hasn't afforded Dean the opportunity to build up a resistance to THC like these boys. He finally has to clear his throat and go with the truth, "Well, my -- uh, uncle lives here. My brother and I are staying with him for a while."

He doesn't want to meet their eyes after the admission, afraid of eye contact might invite follow-ups, but he can't seem to stop himself from checking their reactions. Luckily, Gabriel busies himself with stomping out the joint and flicking it off in to a bush, seemingly uninterested in backstory. Castiel is staring at him, however, with emotion swimming in his eyes. Curiosity, mostly, but also concern, maybe a little sadness. He doesn't want any of those things, so he stares down at his ratty work boots and ignores them.

"Well, welcome to the neighborhood anyway," Gabriel says with graceful nonchalance. "I think I'll make cottage pie for lunch, now that I'm nice and toasty. Papa's tum-tum's gonna start a-rumbling soon. You like cottage pie, Dean-o?"

"Huh?"

"You know, meat, potatoes, cheese, some vegetables thrown in to help you growing boys get big and strong. Our house is just outside the trail that way, what'd you say?" Gabriel is already standing, walking backwards slowly down the path he came from, beckoning Dean and Castiel with his fingers.

These boys are strangers, Dean reminds himself, which means they are threats. That's what John taught him over and over. But, John also taught him how to read people, to see their true intentions underneath whatever facade they use -- because everybody uses one, _everybody_, another lesson -- and these boys seem to be harboring a simple genuine desire to get high and eat cottage pie. There are thing buzzing beneath, sure, but none of them ping any alarms in Dean's mind. Besides, Gabriel is short and Castiel is skinny. Dean could take either of them, or both, if needed.

"Yeah, you know, I haven't had a decent cottage pie in too long."

"Then you're in luck, because mine is _divine_. You'll never be able to taste another without my stunning visage popping up longingly in your brain."

"Well, I suppose I'll eat it anyway."

"Oh, sassy, are you? Please, I'll haunt your dreams." 

Another laugh bubbles out of Dean, and he thinks it might be worth getting tricked and murdered by these two just for the chuckles.

__

Castiel is going to murder his brother. He is going to commit fratricide and he is not even going to go to hell for it because God will understand that it is required for the world to remain moral and true.

"Please, Cassie, we all know you don't have the balls," Gabriel mutters in his ear. Castiel is currently mashing potatoes with more aggression than is strictly necessary. Dean has excused himself from cheese grating duty to find the washroom. Castiel is praying he does not get distracted by the Hall of Baby Photos that leads up to the first floor's half-bath.

"The balls for what?" Castiel hisses.

"For murdering me. Don't look surprised, I know that face, that's your I'm-going-to-commit-justifiable-fratricide-and-God-will-forgive-me-because-Gabriel-is-a-ding-dong face. It's a Castiel Classic. It's also hogwash. You just can't see that I am helping you."

"I do not need your help. Especially since your help consists solely of humiliating me."

"No, no, the humiliation is just my payment for helping. Did you not notice how I _very slyly_ got the cute boy to come over and spend more time with you?"

"Did _you_ not notice how you also told him he was the physical representation of all my wet dreams?"

"That's just the truth. it's not like you were going to tell him. You always clam up around pretty boys. You're going to die a virgin at this point."

"I am perfectly comfortable with my virginity, thank you. Besides, how do I know you did not bring him over here for yourself and this is just part of you messing with me?"

"Because I'm selfless, duh. A natural giver. One's of America's truest heroes. Anyway, it's more of a challenge to get you laid. If I were seducing him for me it'd just be too easy."

Castiel's violent, jerky potato mashing becomes more violent and jerky the more he keeps speaking to his brother, causing bits of potato to fly out on to the counter and directly at his own face. He gets a hard chuck up one of his nostrils and decides he has had enough. In a huff, he pushes the bowl away and declares, "Potatoes are mashed. I am going to have a cigarette."

"Come on, don't get pissy. I will bet all the money to my name that boy is at least 60% gay."

"You have eleven dollars and 35 cents to your name, Gabriel, I watched you counting all your nickels last night. And what exactly are you basing this assumption on?"

"The eyelashes! Have you seen them? They are like Daddy Long Legs."

Castiel sputters, throwing up his hands, "Eyelashes are no indication of sexuality. You are just trying to mess with me. That is what this whole thing is about. You talked a cute boy over to dangle him in front of me like a ball of yarn in front of a kitten. You just want me to bat at him so you can laugh at me and go _aw, isn't that cute._"

And, yes, _of course, _Castiel had seen the eyelashes. They are going to be dancing through his dreams for weeks, which just makes him feel more irritable. Things were fine a half an hour ago when he was just sharing a joint with a mysterious adonis. He could keep his composure when it was just the two of them and he knew Dean would be gone soon, vanishing like a phantom who was never really there. That would have been fine. This thing with Gabriel running his mouth off and Dean probably looking at the photo of toddler Castiel running around the yard in a diaper though, is too much.

"You wound me, brother. I am 100% on your side here. And those eyelashes are at least bi-curious, if not, then I just don't understand the world. No boy should have eyelashes like that and not share with whomever desires to gaze at them longingly."

Castiel honestly does not understand half of what comes out of his brother's mouth. It is not even worth arguing about, anymore. He just shakes his head and declares, "smoke," before letting himself in to the backyard. Their house is on a hill, so that the main level is flush with driveway in the front but several feet off the ground in the back. The sliding glass door off the kitchen leads to a large deck that has a set of stairs down to the backyard lawn. There is an old set of patio furniture perpetually set up on the deck, even in the rainiest months of winter, perfect for smoking.

Seven years ago, if someone had told Castiel he would be arguing about cute boys openly with one of his brothers and comfortably smoking cigarettes in the backyard of his parents' house, he'd have told them lying is a sin. Those were all things that his father told him never to do, never to _think _about doing and seven years ago, his father's wisdom had seemed infallible. Then the man left and all those words of guidance and obedience turned to dirt.

Three years ago, Castiel had started smoking cigarettes, started smoking weed, started drinking, because three years ago he had been overwhelmed by a furious need to distance himself from everything his father told him to be. That anger had died away, but the vices stuck around. The nicotine entering his system now soothes the nerves riled up by pretty boys and terrible brothers. It is a crutch, he knows, a false sense of peace, but he made the decision to piss of a father that isn't around to be pissed off and now he is stuck with it.

He came out of the closet three years ago, too, but that was less to do with rebellion. That was a moment of truth that Castiel won't let be tainted by crediting his father as a catalyst.

"Your brother is something," Dean's deep voice accompanies the slide of the glass door leading out of the kitchen.

"Oh yeah, a real something." 

"I like him," Dean declares, a smile on his face that is so beautiful that Castiel's heart threatens to leap out of his chest. "He's got style, you know? Character. Don't know if I've ever met anyone like him and I've met a lot of people."

"Well, you are welcome to him. I do not believe I have any use for him anymore."

Dean chuckles, that smile still on his face, if a bit more quietly. The truth is, Castiel is a little thankful for Gabriel, though he would never admit it out loud. His big brother was not lying when he said that Castiel would not have had the balls to ask Dean to spend more time with him. If he had not already been half-stoned when Dean appeared like magic in the woods, Castiel probably would not have had the balls to invite him to share his joint. Normally, he can handle people all right. He is introverted, but not especially shy. That is until even a modicum of sexual attraction enters the equation and then it is like a black hole appears in his brain, sucking in and destroying all clever thoughts and interesting things to say.

Sort of like right now. He breathes in more nicotine, trying to see he if can flood his system with enough that it will override his charisma incompetence.

"You been smoking for long?" Dean asks. He is leaning back lazily in his deck chair, one of his ankles resting atop the opposite knee, his foot jangling at a leisurely tempo. Castiel tries to remember what is a normal length of time to look at a person and how long you can get away with it before it becomes creepy.

"Oh -- uh -- a few years. My brother Lou got me started. Or -- well, actually he just agreed to buy packs for me when I asked."

"You've got another brother?"

"I've got four and a sister."

Castiel waits for the look and there it is. Dean's pretty arched eyebrows go up in surprise. It is too bad everyone in Yelm knows the Novaks because Castiel loves the shock people have at the idea that a person could have more than one or two siblings. 

"Wow, big family. Must be nice. Or, maybe it's annoying? I could see how it could go either way."

"Mostly annoying. You've met Gabriel. Multiply that by five."

Dean chuckles. It's a truly magnificent sound. "Are you the baby?"

"I prefer _youngest_. I get enough 'baby' from the family, but, yes."

Dean chuckles lightly, "yeah, Sammy hates when I call him a baby. He hates when I call him Sammy, too. It's half of why I do it."

"So, it's just a universal older brother thing then."

"Pretty much."

Silence falls again, but this time Castiel has run out of cigarette to busy himself with. Dean doesn't seem to mind. His perfect, sculpted face is calm, pointed towards the sun, nearly radiating with all the light bouncing off it. Castiel tries to force himself to think of something to say, but the more pressure he puts on himself, the more nothingness echoes through his brain. He fears soon Dean will get bored, but from what Castiel can tell from his body language, the boy remains content.

Minutes drip by, the only noises coming from the odd breeze blowing through the trees and Gabriel clanging pots together in the kitchen. Castiel feels like he should be more antsy at the lack of conversation, but instead he finds himself becoming more relaxed. He is happy to have this boy with him, because he is beautiful, but also because there is something earthy about the rumble of his voice, something that comes out feeling genuine and kind. 

He has wide shoulders that lead down to ropy, toned arms, all muscle and no fat. His hands are knotty and calloused. He is wearing a AC/DC shirt that is ripping near the armpit. Normally, Castiel's head would be going off with alarms bells, telling him that this is the type of boy that would sneer and push him while he is walking down the hall just because he could. (Or, at least, they would push Castiel if not for the fact that everyone knows the Novaks and everyone is a little afraid of them. Not many have dared pick on Lou Novak's little brother, no matter how odd and small and non-confrontational he is.) Dean has all the trappings of one of _those guys, _but there is a softness in his gaze, in his tone, especially when he talks about his brother, that soothes all worries.

Vibration sound from Dean's pocket. The boy does not bother to open his eyes to check who is calling him before he is thumbing open a beaten silver flip phone. "Hm?" Dean hums sleepily in to the phone.

"_Dean! Where are you?_" Castiel can hear a high voice on the other end of the line, not quite high enough to belong to a girl, so it is probably a young boy who hasn't reached puberty. The voice sounds a little frantic, but when Castiel peaks over at Dean, the boys is still just as passive as before.

"Just out, Sammy," Dean says calmly. He doesn't make any move to get up, opting to stay at the deck table where Castiel can clearly hear his conversation.

"_Out where? The Impala is still here. Did you go to the garage with Bobby?"_

"He told me to take the day, so I did."

_"So, where did you go? You didn't take the car." _Sam sounds is less panicked now, but still edged with urgency, probably mostly leftover from his early emotions.

"I went for a walk in the woods," Dean sighs as he talks, finally getting off his seat as if realizing this might be a more private moment than he previously considered. He takes the stairs down from Castiel deck to the yard. He doesn't go far enough, though, and Castiel can still hear, "I ran in to a couple guys my age and shot the shit, you know, trying to play nice and make friends or whatever 'normal' bullshit you are always on me about. They invited me over for lunch. Everything is fine. Don't get yourself so worked up."

Castiel can't hear Sam's reply. He tries to tell himself that he should not want to, but he does. Damn it, he wants to any shred of information he get about Dean.

"Nothing like that is gonna happen, Sam. Promise. Don't think things like that. You don't got anything to worry about here. Dad's just cautious, that's why we're with Bobby, where it's is definitely safe."

Castiel cannot stop his thoughts from spinning over the words, trying out different fill-in-the-blanks for what Dean could be talking about. He's stomach clenches, because whatever it is does not sound good. It sounds like trouble. He wishes he could ask, but they are basically strangers and he doesn't have the right, no matter how much he wants to be someone Dean could confide in.

Fuck, he is getting in way over his head. He has to remind himself that he only met Dean a couple hours ago, that the boy very well may not wish to even see Castiel again after this afternoon. He is getting himself too invested in a pretty face, one he knows next to nothing about. He can hear Lou and Raph in his head, mocking _sensitive little Cassie and his tender, bleeding heart._

"You read too many books. Your imagination is out of control.... Whatever, bitch.... Yeah, sure, we can go when I get back. Just try not to wet yourself with excitement for the next couple of hours.... Yeah, I know you have. We'll get you one. Hey, I should go, I'll see you in a bit. Don't be such a worrywart, okay? See ya, kid." 

Dean comes bouncing back up the steps, a fond smile on his face. When he catches Castiel watching him, his face morphs in to something slightly embarrassed, a dusting of pink spreading across the line of his cheekbones. "Little bro," he says with a blasé shrug that doesn't fool Castiel in to thinking the boy isn't wrapped around his little brother's finger, "kid's a total dork. Like, really, King Dork of the Land of Nerd. He wants me to take him to the library today so he can get a library card. It's a wonder we are even related."

Castiel laughs lightly, because even with his meager insults, Dean radiates love for his brother. He almost wonders if any of his older brothers have ever reacted like that to a phone call from him, but he doesn't have to. The thought is preposterous.

As if on cue, Gabriel explodes out of the sliding glass door, his three-foot bong (named by Gabriel, during an extended smoking session in which they attempted to hotbox their entire basement, _Thor's Cock_) in his hand, announcing, "Pie'll be done in 30. So... in the meantime, anyone wanna rip this sucker?"

Castiel lets Dean answer for them, since he is always ready to smoke, but he isn't sure how much of a stoner Dean really is. He's pleased when Dean's face cracks in to a smile and he says, "bring it on."

A couple hours later, the food has been consumed and the high is tapering off, leaving Castiel content and fuzzy. The boys linger out on the deck for a while, just shooting the shit. Gabriel fuels most of the conversation, trying in a way that is much less subtle than he thinks it is, to suss out the details of Dean's existence. Dean, for his part, deflects and redirects the conversation time and time again in a way that is actually subtle, so much so that Gabriel doesn't notice until five minutes later when he is wrapping up a story about live chickens and his eighth grade science teacher's pantry and he realizes they never did learn where Dean grew up.

It is getting late in the afternoon and soon Dean is shuffling around in a way that says he is getting ready to leave. Gabriel sends Castiel several significant looks that he is sure are meant to tell him something but don't. He sends back confused looks, which only make Gabriel double his efforts until his face reaches the end of its ability to express and he has to add hand gestures and meaningful coughs to try and get his meaning across. It doesn't work. Castiel's not good at intuiting covert, or often overt, signals.

"Well," Dean says, "I better get going. Gotta get Sammy to the library and shit. Thanks for the weed, guys, and the food. It pains me to admit it, but that was some damn good cottage pie."

"You are welcome, Dean," Castiel says, trying to keep all disappointment out of his voice. He thinks he succeeds. He is pretty good at stoicism. His bigger problem is getting his voice and body to actually express his emotions.

Dean chuckles at him and Castiel doesn't understand why. Had he said something funny? He hopes if he did, it was funny-funny, not this-kid's-such-a-freak-funny. He has been laughed at in that manner too many times in his life, not uncommonly by pretty boys. It always makes the sting a little worse.

"Do you know the way through the woods?" Castiel asks.

"Yeah, sure. Don't worry about me."

"I will try not to. It was very nice to meet you, Dean." Castiel wishes this didn't feel like the last time he was going to see Dean, like this was going to end up being just another time that Castiel got himself tangled up over someone beautiful only to be reminded that he isn't what beautiful people want.

"Yeah, you too," Dean smiles as he speaks, because the world is cruel and unfair, "same for you, Gabe."

Gabriel nods, waving half-heartedly. He has ceased his fruitless attempts at communicating with Castiel and is now staring at his knees, brows creased in concentration. Dean sends Castiel a look that he thinks means, _what's up with him? _He sends back a shrug that he means as, _no one ever knows._

"Burgers!" Gabriel exclaims, just as Dean has turned his back to start making his way to the corner of their backyard, where a gate swings open to reveal a path in to the woods.

"What?" Castiel and Dean say together.

"Burgers. Everyone loves a good burger. Cassie and I happen to know where they make _the best_ burgers this side of the Cascades. Just sloppy, greasy piles of cholesterol and love. If you want, Dean, we could introduce you to a bacon cheeseburger that will ruin you _for life_."

When Castiel looks over at Dean, he sees the boy smiling brightly, sparks of challenge in his candy-apple green eyes. "I don't know... see, I'm sort of a connoisseur when it comes to burgers. You talk a big game, but I have eaten a burger in just about every state of the union, and I have a list. It's ranked and everything. It'd take something real special to wow me."

"Challenge accepted!" Gabriel declares, his smile hyper and wicked, "How's tomorrow evening? Why don't you just give Cassie your number and we'll be in touch."

Somehow, when Dean finally does exit into the woods, Castiel has his number programed in his phone and plans to see the boy again. _Soon._ It is such a strange turn of events that he has to spend five whole minutes sitting silently trying to convince himself that it really happened. He has never gotten a boy's number before. Okay, so technically _he _didn't get Dean's number, but he has it none-the-less. If his brain was working properly at the moment, he might be worried about this being a sign of the apocalypse.

"God," Gabriel says, leaning back, his fingers deftly loading another bowl of Castiel's weed, "I am really the best brother in the world. I am constantly staggered by my own giving spirit. I want a trophy -- or, no, I want a formal decree from the governor. _For valiant and tireless efforts in getting his virgin brother's dick sucked, Gabriel Novak is awarded the title of Most --"_

"Yes, yes, I get it," Castiel sighs, "you are brilliant and magnanimous. Thank you."


End file.
